


Human and Holy

by iamthelightening



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Dean, Dean in Denial, M/M, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Soulless Sam Winchester, Tired Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthelightening/pseuds/iamthelightening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve times the lines blurred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human and Holy

**1.**

Castiel tipped his head back against the sun-warmed leather seat of the Impala, the heat pleasantly sharp on the delicate skin of his neck. In front of him, Sam and Dean were bickering over which fast-food restaurant to stop at and their voices mingled with the sound of Dean’s music until the noise rolled over Castiel and surrounded him.  It no longer made sense, but it was pleasant on his ears in the same way that the hot leather was pleasant on his skin and the vibrations of the moving car were pleasant as they moved through his body. 

He thought that he had never experienced such simple pleasure in Heaven.

He thought that the lightness he felt in his chest and the ache he felt in his cheeks from the grin that he couldn’t seem to remove from his face was what it must feel like to be happy.

 

**2.**

“Cas?” Dean groped blindly for the bedside lamp, having been wrenched out of a deep sleep by a rustle of wings somewhere within the dark motel room.  He swore under his breath at the sharp stabbing pain in his side that meant he’d stretched his broken ribs too far.  His fingers finally found the switch, and warm light flooded the room, illuminating the man sitting on the foot of the bed. 

“Dean.” The angel turned to face him and Dean frowned at the deep lines etched in the man’s face.  Castiel looked bone tired. 

“You okay?”  Dean made to sit up, his voice concerned and careful.  He hadn’t seen Cas look this haggard and weary in all the time he had known the angel.  Even Cas’s brilliantly blue eyes were dull with exhaustion. 

“I am fine.  Do not move, Dean. You are hurt.” Castiel stood and walked to Dean’s side of the bed, placing his warm palm gently over Dean’s breastbone. Dean sank back into the pillows, biting back a yelp as a blistering heat engulfed him.  The heat vanished after a moment, and Dean let out a sigh of relief as the pain of his broken ribs disappeared with it.

“Thanks.”  He shifted over, sliding across the bed so that the half closest to Cas was empty.  “Lie down, man.  You look like Hell—and I should know, I’ve been there.” A ghost of a smile flickered over Castiel’s lips at that and his eyes rested upon the hand-shaped scar seared into Dean’s shoulder, left visible by Dean’s preference for sleeping shirtless. 

“I, too, have been to Hell.”  Castiel grimaced, his eyes moving up to meet Dean’s.  “And I do not wish to look like that.”

“Come on,” Dean pulled back the covers.  “You probably don’t actually sleep, but you should at least have some downtime.”  Castiel made as though to climb into the bed fully dressed, but Dean stopped him with a quiet laugh.  “You’ll never be comfortable like that—take off, well, most of it.  You can leave on your undershirt, and boxers.”

Castiel wondered how Dean knew he—or rather, Jimmy Novak—wore boxers, but he complied, leaving his clothes in a pile beside the bed.  As he slipped underneath the covers, warmed by the heat of Dean’s body, he gave an involuntary shudder.

It was as though he had held himself so tightly together that now, at this moment, when he felt he could relax, he found himself breaking from the pressure of Heaven’s war.  He could not stop the second shudder, which merged with a third and became a steady tremble. Nor could he stop the soft whimper that left his throat as he tried to bury his face into the pillow that smelled so strongly of Dean. 

“Cas, hey, Cas.”  Dean’s voice was low.  If he was worried by this sudden breakdown of Castiel’s, he did not let it show. He reached out and wrapped an arm around the angel, who was now sobbing freely, and pulled him close against his chest.  Tears streamed unchecked down Castiel’s face, soaking the pillow beneath him, and he tried to stop, but his body was no longer in his control. 

Dean was murmuring comforting words in Castiel’s ear, and his hand moved up and down Castiel’s arm in long, soothing strokes.  “It’s okay, Cas, it’s okay.  You’re safe.” 

This somehow only made Castiel sob harder, and he curled up into himself, a wrenching pain that seemed to have no physical cause aching deep within his chest.  Dean curled around Castiel, holding him tighter, stroking him in those steady, even movements.      

At last, Castiel felt his body begin to calm down.  His breath slowed, no longer heaving gasps for air, and the tears on his cheeks began to dry.  He slowly uncurled, stretching out on his side. Dean stayed close against his back, the man’s warm hand still moving up and down on Castiel’s arm.

Castiel felt as though he had been drugged.  His movements felt slow and sluggish, the continuous rhythm of Dean’s hand against his skin was hypnotizing.  Cradled in the warmth of the bed, legs tangled in blankets and entwined with Dean’s, Castiel began to slip into something resembling sleep. Or as close as he would get, as an angel.  He closed his eyes, relaxing fully into the mattress.  He could feel Dean loosen up as he did so, and after a moment Dean’s breathing slowed, indicating that he was close to sleep as well. Just before Dean’s slipped under, he pressed a soft kiss into the nape of Castiel’s neck, and Castiel wasn’t even sure the hunter was aware he had done it.

A soft sigh slipped out of Castiel’s lips, and he let himself drift.

 

**3.**

Dean tugged on Castiel’s lapels, pulling them straight.   His hands lingered on the smooth fabric of the trench coat.  Castiel took a step closer, and Dean froze.

“Cas.”

“Dean.”

Dean drew in a breath with an effort.  He knew he should move back, step away from the sudden intrusion into his personal space.  But his hands remained still, delicately resting just below the angel’s shoulders. Castiel raised his own hands from his sides and slowly brought them up to rest on Dean’s hips.

The sensation of Castiel’s hands heavy on his hips through the thin fabric of his t-shirt sent Dean’s pulse scrambling, and he could feel the heat flush through his cheeks as his mouth parted unconsciously.  His eyes darted frantically away from Castiel’s, and a sudden panic had him yanking his hands back, ready to flee, but Castiel’s grip tightened.  His thumbs dug into Dean’s hips, fingers clenching at his back, and Dean gave a strangled gasp, his cock rock hard. 

Castiel stared into Dean’s green eyes, fascinated by the blown pupils. His gaze dropped when Dean screwed his eyes shut, as though if he couldn’t see Castiel he could deny what was about to happen.  Dean’s lips were soft and full, and Castiel could just see the wet pink of Dean’s tongue through their part.  Castiel licked his own lips as a sudden sharp want surged through him.  Barely aware of what he was doing, Castiel rose slightly on his toes and slanted his mouth over Dean’s.

 

**4.**

Castiel drummed his fingers along the hard leather of the Impala’s backseat. In front of him, Dean sat staring determinedly at the road ahead, and Sam had dozed off an hour ago, his head tilted back against the headrest at what had to be an uncomfortable angle considering his height.

Castiel wished Dean would turn and look at him.  Or speak to him.  Or in some way acknowledge what had happened between them in the last motel room. When Castiel had pressed himself against Dean, pressed his lips against Dean’s, and felt Dean press back. But after that heated moment, probably the single most intense moment of Castiel’s existence, Dean had yanked himself away from Castiel and refused to speak about it.  Castiel had persisted, and he could be persistent, but every time he tried to bring it up Dean had shut him down almost before Castiel’s mouth had formed the words.

With a loud, and obvious, sigh, Castiel turned to gaze out the window and watch the flat brown landscape blur by. 

 

**5.**

The whiskey burned hot as it slid down Dean’s throat.  The half empty bottle sat on the cheap motel table in front of him, and he poured another shot into his glass.  He grimaced as he brought it up to his lips and swallowed again.  His thoughts moved sluggishly through his brain, but instead of the blissful blankness he had hoped for, they only replayed his kiss with Cas in every painstaking detail.

Cas’s lips had felt soft against his.  But not pliant, like Dean had imagined they would. In reality, Cas’s lips had been insistent, curious.  Dean had been the one who had opened underneath Cas, breath caught in his throat. It had been the gentle, wet brush of Cas’s tongue against the part in Dean’s lips that had unfrozen Dean and caused him to shove the angel back against the wall.  Caused him to run his hands up under that stupid trench coat and grind himself against Cas.  Caused the hungry groan to escape Dean’s lips.

Knowing full well that it was nothing Cas had done to make Dean frantic with need, knowing that it was his own goddamn fault, had Dean reaching once more for the bottle.

**6.**

Castiel stood motionless outside of the long stretch of the motel.  He could see Dean, sitting with his head in his arms at the table beside the window of his room.  The bottle—whiskey probably—silhouetted against the dim light of the room. He wanted to step out from the shadows, walk up to the door.  He thought maybe Dean would let him.  He thought he could press his lips against the lines of worry that were sure to be carving their way into Dean’s forehead.  Wrap his arms around the man’s tense body and pull Dean in until he felt him relax into the embrace.

But maybe Dean would refuse to answer the door.  Maybe he would look at Castiel with only distrust and anger in his eyes.  Maybe he would turn away, uncaring and uninterested.

Castiel’s hands clenched inside the pockets of his trench coat, fingernails digging into his palms as he watched Dean take another swallow. 

 

**7.**

Dean stood under the spray of the showerhead, barely aware of the near-blistering heat of the water.  His eyes were closed and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Steam billowed around him as he took deep, gasping breaths of the humid air that hung like a heavy weight in his chest.  He had hoped that the shower would relax him, would narrow his perception to the pounding of the water on his back and shoulders and the delicate rivulets as they ran down his naked body.  But his brain whirled out of control, his thoughts clawing frantic and screaming inside of his head. 

He felt the beginnings of panic rise in his throat.  His chest tightened and the thick air threatened to choke him.  He fought to control his breathing, to keep it steady and even, but he sucked in air faster and faster, unable to slow himself down.  The hands clenched at his sides began to shake and his legs tremble and he gave a sobbing gasp as he fell against the cold hard tile of the shower wall.

 

**8.**

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth, feeling the roughness of three-day-old stubble and cracked lips on his fingers.  His eyes were sore and bloodshot.  If he cared enough to notice, he would’ve realized that outside the rain had finally stopped.  He knew that he should leave the motel room.  He should shower, and shave, and get in the Impala and drive until he showed up at Lisa’s door.  Because that’s what Sammy wanted.

He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard against the sudden nausea that overcame him, but within a matter of seconds he lunged from the unmade bed to the bathroom and heaved desperately into the toilet.  His hands scrabbled uselessly on the porcelain as his body violently expelled last night’s alcohol binge.  Eventually, he pushed himself away from the toilet and collapsed against the wall behind him.  His face was wet, and he didn’t know if it was from tears, or sweat, or both.  

There was a soft flutter of wings and suddenly Castiel was crouched on the bathroom floor beside him, the angel’s brow creased with sympathy and concern.

“Dean,” he said, in his rough voice, a hand lifting to press against Dean’s damp cheek.  He was unsurprised when Dean jerked away, and hoped for a moment that Dean might meet his eyes, but the other man just tipped his head back against the wall.

“Fuck off, Cas.”  There was no heat to his voice, no anger, just a jagged and raw ache that Castiel couldn’t help but flinch from.  He wished he could wrap Dean in his arms and hold him close and comfort him—but instead he simply pressed a firm hand to Dean’s shoulder before vanishing with the same quiet flutter of wings.

Dean took a shallow breath and reached for the bottle of half-empty whiskey left on the bathroom counter from the night before. 

**9.**

The sudden sharp pain as Dean’s hand fisted cruelly in Castiel’s hair was at odds with the gentle press of his soft lips.  Though the fingers clenched tight and forced a whimper from Castiel’s throat, he felt himself melting against the hard line of Dean’s body. He did not understand these conflicting emotions that at once made him want to wrap his own arms around Dean and pull him close and bury himself in the man, and at the same time made him want to flee—to run as far and as fast from this place, this person, as possible.

As though sensing Castiel’s uncertainty, Dean’s hand tightened, and his lips moved more insistently, but still so gently, against Castiel’s. Dean’s free hand moved to dig bruising fingers into Castiel’s hip, pinning him firmly against the wall.

 

**10.**

The road was dark save for the twin beams of the Impala’s headlights, but Dean ground his foot down against the gas pedal, reckless and stupid.  His right hand gripped white-knuckled to the steering wheel as his left brought up the half empty bottle of beer to his lips. In the seat beside him rested the two remaining bottles.  He hadn’t even bothered to shove them into the cooler.  They wouldn’t last long enough to warm up. 

A part of him knew what an idiot he was being, knew that if he crashed headfirst into a tree it would be his own damn fault.  A bigger part of him didn’t care. 

He tilted his head back and finished off the beer with a long swallow, tossing the empty bottle out of the open window beside him.  The night was hot, and still, and he drove faster yet. If he drove fast enough maybe he could leave behind the images of steady blue eyes and soft pink lips that crowded inside of his head.  Faster still, and maybe he could forget the feel of a warm palm gentle against his cheek and the wet heat of a tongue gliding uncertain against his own.

 

**11.**

Castiel’s cheek pressed against the cool pane of the Impala’s window. On the other side of the glass rain streamed down in steady rivulets, a soothing and steady rhythm. It was early, very early, and the sky was only just beginning to lighten behind the dull grey rainclouds. He knew he should leave the car and find the Winchesters in their hotel room, where he knew they lay in their separate beds, both sleeping with weapons under their pillows.

But right now all he wanted was a moment of silence, of peace, and the feeling of weightlessness that he so often experienced sitting in the back seat of the Impala.

**12.**

His knuckles bloody and swollen, Dean clenched his hand tightly around a bottle of beer that was still slick from the cooler. Castiel suspected that this was not Dean’s first drink of the night, just as he suspected that it would not be the hunter’s last. 

“Dean.” Castiel’s eyes were gentle on his face as Dean shifted and turned to look at him.  There was something strange in Dean’s gaze. Something that prowled dangerously behind the anger in those expressive green eyes.  Despite himself, Castiel nearly took an uncertain step away. 

“You brought me back.”  As though he could read Castiel’s mind, Dean moved closer to the angel, crowding him back against the table.  “You brought me back from Hell.”

Castiel did not hear a question, and so he remained silent, his gaze steady on Dean’s even as his chest tightened in apprehension.  Whatever it was that lurked inside Dean, simmering under the fury, caused a thrill of something that was not-quite fear to run up Castiel’s spine and his lips parted with a shallow breath.

With deliberate slowness, Dean stepped closer to Castiel, close enough that Castiel could feel the heat of the other man through the layers of clothing between them.  Dean made a sudden movement with his arm, and Castiel felt something low in his belly clench as Dean reached around him to place the bottle of beer on the table at his back. His other hand moved to cage the angel, trapping him there between the table and the long hard line of Dean’s body.

“So why,” Dean’s voice was velvet-soft, purring with an edge of thunder, and it took Castiel a moment to recall what Dean was speaking about as his own body burned with an emotion he could not identify.  “If you brought me back, and I was fine, then why isn’t Sam?”

“I—” Castiel blinked, confusion flitting into his wide blue eyes as his voice faltered, something foreign to him.  “I did not bring Sam back.  I do not know what did.”

“You’re a goddamn angel, Cas.”  Dean’s eyes bore into Castiel’s, and though Castiel tried to hold his gaze steady, he seemed helpless against the way his eyes dropped to Dean’s lips, twisted in a cruel sneer. 

“But I am not God.”  This time his voice cracked—the strain of Heaven’s war, the struggle to maintain his identity when he was caught between human and holy, and the desperate, aching need to touch finally overwhelming him.  With a broken noise, his hands grabbed for Dean’s hips, pulling the other man flush against his body as he crushed his mouth against Dean’s hard enough to bruise.


End file.
